I picked up the knife. I knew I was about to cut myself again

Cycling superstar Victoria Pendleton reveals she was a 'fragile misfit' who used self-harm to escape her demons

Dad rode away from me as we climbed the hill on a cold and drizzly Sunday
morning in Bedfordshire. “He doesn’t love me,” I said to myself as I tried
to keep up with his distant figure. “He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love me
. . .”

I repeated the words over and over again as, never lifting my gaze from the
unbreakable man on the bike climbing the steep hill, I turned my legs as
fast as I could. I had to hang onto Dad.

I was sure that if I lost sight of him I would lose hold of his love. The
drizzle hardened into rain. Dad still didn’t look back. He sped away from
me, up towards the clouds rolling down from the top of the hill. Dad looked
more ghostly then.

I was 15. I had grown used to the ritual of chasing my father as he sped